


The Princess and the Poacher

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [31]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dwarf Culture & Customs, F/F, Life in Ered Luin, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21682171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Life in Ered Luin comes with hardships, even for royalty; and the quest for Thorin's new boots eventually sparks a much greater tale.Dís grows up in Ered Luin; a very different life to that expected for the Princess Under the Mountain, but not an unhappy one... when she doesn't have to dance with detestable louts, of course.Sometimes, "You're an idiot(but you'remyidiot)." is the only good way to say "I love you."Three slices of life involving Dís and her spouse, written for Have a Happy Hobbit Holiday 2019.
Relationships: Dís/Dís's Spouse
Series: The Dwelf series [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/593011
Comments: 9
Kudos: 12
Collections: Have A Happy Hobbit Holiday 2019





	The Princess and the Poacher

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HSavinien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HSavinien/gifts).

> Kindly betaed by Fernstrike and Idrils_scribe

# Ered Luin, 2849

“Víli might have some, my Queen,” the fur trader said, apologetic. “She roams far afield at times.”

Frís nodded, setting down the soft fox pelt with a slightly wistful sigh. She wanted beaver, resistant to sudden squalls on the road, for Thorin whose boots had worn through the winter before last. Their available funds, stretched thin by the failed expedition – there were things she would rather not even consider selling – had sufficed to buy either new boots or new clothes, and the clothes had won; poor they might be, but the Royal family still possessed their pride. 

“Víli, you say?” she asked, curious. Not a fur trader she had heard of before, but she didn’t delude herself into thinking that she knew every soul in the Blues.

Beside her, Dís shrugged; she didn’t know the name either.

“Víli, child of Radgrida, yes,” he nodded.

“And where might I find this Víli?” Frís wondered. With Radgrida for a mother, she could understand how Víli might end up with a reputation for roaming far afield – Radgrida was a well-respected dam, but known to suffer little opposition to her rule of her family; her manner often reminded Frís of Thrór, though Radgrida did not have the power or presence of her late father by law.

Suddenly she almost missed him, the way he had been _before_, at least; when she was a child in Erebor, King Thrór had still been a source of strength to his people.

“At the North-mine, my Queen,” the trader replied, making Frís shake off her sudden melancholy and offer him a kind smile. “Ask for foreman Boggvur, they’ll know where to find Víli.”

“Thank you.”

“Wee Víli?” Boggvur asked, scratching at his beard as he eyed her. “And what’s the likes of you want with that scoundrel?” He wasn’t hostile – Frís had the odd thought that the foreman was _protective_ of her and Dís, somehow – but clearly confused by her request. Was Víli a bad sort?

“Someone at market said Víli might be able to lay hands on some beaver skins,” Dís shrugged. “And my brother needs new boots.”

Like magic, the foreman’s face changed, as though the mere mention of Thorin was a key to a lock. Frís’ heart ached, missing Thráin with a fierceness that rivalled the yearning she held for Frerin’s golden smiles; if only Thráin would come back… but she knew herself a widow, knew her son a King, no matter how much Thorin protested when she tried to speak of the topic. Dwalin had returned, Mahal be praised, and the hollow-eyed look Thorin had worn in the months of worry with no word had mostly disappeared in the four years that had passed since.

But no word did not mean dead to Thorin, clinging stubbornly to the hope that his adad would return and lift the burden of ruling their people from Thorin’s shoulders a little.

On some days, Frís envied his conviction.

But she knew better.

The Elvenking’s people might not have found Thráin’s body, but they had no doubt of his demise, his tracks leading into the accursed fortress of Dol Guldur where no living soul would willingly walk.

Her husband was gone and her son waited in vain, unwilling to take the word of an Elf.

And so the people still called her Queen, called him Prince, and would do so until Thorin took his throne in truth.

But he was the King, and everyone knew it as well as she did.

“Might you send for this Víli?” Frís asked mildly. “Or ask her to call upon me at her leisure, perhaps?”

“I’ll send her round after her shift,” Boggvur promised, looking pleased that he wouldn’t suddenly be a dwarf short for his roster.

Frís nodded, accepting the attempt at a courtly bow from Boggvur, and took Dís’ arm, walking down the road towards the village.

“Good morning – wait, you’re the bloody Princess!” A golden beard parted by a surprised mouth, moss-green eyes widening as the dwarf on the doorstep clapped a grubby hand across her mouth. “That was rude, wasn’t it?” she whispered, staring down at her dusty boots, almost looking like she expected to be struck.

“Well, perhaps…” Dís replied, trying not to laugh. Who would knock on their door and be surprised to find themselves face to face with a member of the Royal household, after all? “But yes, I am Dís Thráinsdaughter.” Raising an eyebrow, she waited.

“Víli…” the dam replied nervously, “child of Radgrida.” Bobbing a quick head nod, as though she wasn’t quite sure whether she should bow or not, Víli kept staring at her boots. “Lady Princess.”

“Good to meet you, Víli,” Dís smiled, amused by the bashfulness – Boggvur’s words had made her expect Víli to be someone much more like Branka, self-assured and brash – and somehow oddly charmed, too. “Amad wished to see you about some beaver skins.”

“Oh.” Nervous energy suddenly left Víli’s wiry frame, and Dís wondered what she had thought she was summoned to the King’s house for – nothing good, by the relief suffusing her smile when she looked up once more, darting a glance at Dís’ face before staring down at her boots again. “Foreman Boggvur didn’t say.”

She really was quite cute, beneath the mining dust, her wheat-golden hair braided with care; unwed, by her braids, and not much older than Dís herself, either.

“Come in,” Dís said, stepping aside. “Amad is in the kitchen. This way.”

The beaver skin boots were not the last time Dís found herself welcoming Víli and a load of furs to their home, offering small refreshments while Frís haggled for the best deals. Víli was a miner by occupation, though she thought her occupation might be more truthfully listed as a poacher, though not of large game. Lord Jarrin’s pride and joy was the large herd of wild boar roaming the forest slopes; the penalty for killing one was steep. Hunting smaller things – hares, rabbits, beavers, squirrels – carried much less risk and Víli found steady income supplying the fur traders in town with skins.

Still, trading in furs might have been the end of the association between the Royal Family and Víli child of Radgrida… If not for what happened at the spring equinox ball.

* * *

# Ered Luin, 2856

“Dance with me, my Princess!” Branka laughed, muscling in before Thorin had a chance to reach her, her last partner melting away like dew in morning.

Dís scowled, too polite to pull herself away and disrupting the line of dancers, though the thought was tempting.

Instead, she did her best to stomp on Branka’s feet, missing her iron-toed boots greatly when the dwarf didn’t even wince at the impact.

“My answer remains the same, Master Branka,” she told him, her voice a true copy of Frís’ most regally imposing chill as she moved, keeping constant space between them though Branka’s hands did not wander as they had in the past. “I shan’t be ‘your’ anything.” Whirling past Dwalin and her brother, Dís tilted her head, looking at her dance partner with something like pity. “And you’d best hope to disappear before my brother reaches us after this song.”

“We could disappear together,” he grinned, giving her a lascivious wink that made Dís’ spine crawl.

“_Never_,” she told him. “If you were the last Dwarf in Middle Earth, I should not wish to go with you anywhere.” She carried a blade or five around her person but stabbing the son and heir to Lord Jarrin would cause their people untold hardships and so Dís was resigned to stoic endurance – for a time.

Branka just laughed, acting as though she was charming him with her wit, but his eyes remained cold.

“May I cut in?”

The words floated over her shoulder for just a moment, delivered at the perfect time for Dís to twirl around as the dance required and find herself caught by a different pair of hands, following a different lead.

“Víli!” she exclaimed but let the miner steer her away from Branka with a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“My lady Princess,” Víli nodded respectfully, braids dancing about their face – not a dam, tonight, then, Dís noted, an alloy – those greenish eyes alight above a smile of pure mischief. “I noted that you did not seem to care for his touch,” they added.

“An odious Dwarf – and one who carries few friendly feelings towards me and mine,” Dís replied, glancing back at Branka Jarrinson.

“I take it the rumours of your impending betrothal to Master Branka lack substance, then,” Víli said, following her eyes before turning them deftly away and into the crowd of dancers.

“Be-_betrothal_?” Dís stammered, gaping at them. “_Never. On my life_.”

Víli’s grin grew wider.

“You’re being funny with me, aren’t you?” Dís growled, though she could feel laughter bubbling up from her chest all the same. “Rascal.”

Víli ducked their head, nodding, those green eyes bright with laughter as they wove skilfully through the formations of the dance. “You’re pretty when you laugh,” they said, and from another dwarf Dís would have considered it a line at best, but Víli’s eyes were so guileless she couldn’t help but feel a little charmed.

“Well, thank you,” she said, surprised to find her cheeks warm. “And thank you for...” she gestured towards the rest of the dancing area.

“Pleased to be at your service, my lady,” Víli nodded.

“You know, somehow I believe you,” Dís muttered. “Of course, Branka also claimed to be at my service,” she added, glancing at the throng of dancers but unable to spot Branka’s distinctive black spire of hair.

“No one should force their attentions on the unwilling.” Víli’s voice had gone flat, but their hands remained gentle, guiding Dís towards the edge of the group.

Thorin was looking for her, a dark frown on his face, and Dwalin’s arms looked particularly strong tonight, hands flexing the knuckledusters Thorin had made him for Khebabnurtamrâg.

“A lesson Master Branka ought to learn,” Dís agreed. “though the latter half of this dance felt far less unwilling to me.”

Víli smiled at that, though there were still shadows in their eyes.

“I am glad of it, my lady Princess,” they said, bowing to her. “And I remain at your service in future, should you wish it.”

“Does that include helping me catch a dozen hares for their skins?” Dís asked, suddenly daring. “Or would you wish to limit yourself to being my rescuing dance partner?”

Víli laughed, those shadows disappearing into a look of surprised glee. “Well, if you’ve more need of the former, perhaps I shall be of service sooner than expected,” they said, almost teasingly.

“A bedroll,” Dís replied. “My brother is leaving soon, and I want to have it done before that.”

“I should be honoured to get them for you, my lady Princess,” Víli nodded.

“On Thatrnurt, then,” Dís replied.

Víli gaped.

“We shall leave at midday.” Nodding once, Dís gave them a final grin before picking up her skirts in a formal curtsy and swishing off to join amad and Thorin at table.

She barely heard the words floating on the air behind her, but they made her smile widen.

“Thatrnurt, then, my lady Princess… Dís.”

* * *

# Ered Luin, 2859

“You have styled yourself male for some time now, my love,” Dís murmured, running one of Víli’s golden braids through her hands, pinging the small silver bead bearing the mark of Durin – _her_ mark, for _her_ husband – clasping the end of it. “It has made you unhappy.”

Víli’s shoulders stiffened beneath the thin nightshirt.

Dís sighed softly, pressing a kiss against his neck.

“Did you think I would not know, dearest heart?” she wondered, letting her lips travel slowly across Víli’s skin as her strong hands worked at the knotted muscles beneath the fabric.

“I should know better than to think so,” Víli replied, giving in to her touch, “shouldn’t I?”

“I _am_ your wife,” she said, nipping lightly at his ear.

“I’m…” Víli began, groaning lightly when she managed to work loose one of the harder knots. “We have a son, now.”

“… Now you’ve lost me,” Dís frowned, hands stilling. “What does Fíli have to do with your gender?”

When there was no reply, she cupped Víli’s chin gently, turning his head to face her, those mossy green eyes anguished when they met her own.

“A boy should…” Víli whispered, “have a father…”

Dís glared at him.

“Goat-turds to that,” she hissed, wishing that Radgrida lived close enough to storm over at this time of night to slap her for the hurt in Vili’s eyes. “You’re miserable as a male, you always have been; Fíli needs a happy parent, that’s what he needs!” _And so do I_.

Víli did not reply, slumped into him-_them_self in a way that broke Dís’ heart to see, smothering her temper as quickly as the flame had struck. 

She had known that Radgrida believed that Vili’s own lack of a father – dead at Azanulbizar like Dís sweet brother – was the root of their contention, rather than her own controlling nature, but she hadn’t realised how deeply that seam of pain ran through her Víli. 

“This does not make you his parent, darling one,” she added gently, lifting the braid carrying the mark of Víli’s gender carefully, letting it fall from her fingers to press her hand over Víli’s heart, beating a frantic tattoo beneath her palm, “_this_ does.”

“Amad…” Víli mumbled, hiding those green eyes behind an arm, “she always said that, when I was growing up, and – there are too many whispers about the pebble as is, because I’m not a noble, and-”

Dís’ lips on Víli’s thankfully silenced that rot, and she thanked Mahal when she felt her beloved respond, flinging their arms around her as the kiss grew needy between them.

“But you’re _mine,_” she whispered between peppering tiny kisses all over Víli’s dear stupid face. “And I don’t care what anyone says; you’re mine, and Fíli is our son, and _my family_ stand with us.” 

Flicking the braid again, she grinned, secure in the truth of that; Thorin had taken one look at her and declared his support for the marriage – which she had expected, if she was honest, and he well knew the kind of war she’d wage on him if he hadn’t – and Amad had squeezed their hands together with a smile that was only a little wobbly at the edges, but it always was when she thought of Adad. 

“Besides,” she smiled, “I like that you’re not a stuck-up noble – Mahal forbid I’d ever drink enough to find one of them even remotely attractive.” Dipping her head, she kissed them again, liking the way Víli clutched at her when she straddled their narrow hips. “Can I unbraid it now?”

Víli nodded, looking even more relieved than Dís felt when her fingers made short work of the twists, leaving the curly gold locks to tumble freely over their bed. “My stubborn Princess,” they chuckled, hands stroking gently up Dís’ sides, only to return and pinch her bottom lightly. “I don’t think there’s enough scumble in the world to make the idea of marrying Master Branka palatable… I suppose you’re stuck with this lowly miner, then…”

“My wily hunter,” Dís replied, nipping at Víli’s bottom lip, “my beloved spouse and seed of my pebbles… I do love you.”

“And I love you.”

“Good,” Dís replied, smugly, before kissing them again, “because you’re stuck with me, too.”

Víli smiled into the kiss, one hand moving up to tangle in her dark hair, sucking her tongue into their mouth.

The wailing of the pebble in his crib made Dís chuckle, resting her forehead against Víli’s shoulder with a groan of surrender. “And him, I’m afraid,” she muttered, knowing the moment lost.

“I’d have it no other way,” Víli promised, rolling them over on the bed and kissing her breathless once more before pushing away to fetch the little one, hushing him gently as they returned to the bed, gathering Dís up against their side as she pulled her neck-tie loose, pushing the nightshift away to ease the pebble to her breast.

“Me neither, amrâlimê,” Dís whispered, stroking their tiny pebble’s golden head – the same colour as Víli’s, though the eyes seemed to be her own blue, still – as she dozed in the arms of her love.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is interrelated to my wider dwelf verse


End file.
